The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (reading an ebook TXT) 📗
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
- Performer: 0140449248
Book online «The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (reading an ebook TXT) 📗». Author Fyodor Dostoyevsky
without appealing to his direct intervention, they might more decently
come to an understanding under the conciliating influence of the
elder’s presence. Dmitri, who had never seen the elder, naturally
supposed that his father was trying to intimidate him, but, as he
secretly blamed himself for his outbursts of temper with his father on
several recent occasions, he accepted the challenge. It must be
noted that he was not, like Ivan, staying with his father, but
living apart at the other end of the town. It happened that Pyotr
Alexandrovitch Miusov, who was staying in the district at the time,
caught eagerly at the idea. A Liberal of the forties and fifties, a
freethinker and atheist, he may have been led on by boredom or the
hope of frivolous diversion. He was suddenly seized with the desire to
see the monastery and the holy man. As his lawsuit with the
monastery still dragged on, he made it the pretext for seeing the
Superior, in order to attempt to settle it amicably. A visitor
coming with such laudable intentions might be received with more
attention and consideration than if he came from simple curiosity.
Influences from within the monastery were brought to bear on the
elder, who of late had scarcely left his cell, and had been forced
by illness to deny even his ordinary visitors. In the end he consented
to see them, and the day was fixed.
“Who has made me a judge over them?” was all he said, smilingly,
to Alyosha.
Alyosha was much perturbed when he heard of the proposed visit. Of
all the wrangling, quarrelsome party, Dmitri was the only one who
could regard the interview seriously. All the others would come from
frivolous motives, perhaps insulting to the elder. Alyosha was well
aware of that. Ivan and Miusov would come from curiosity, perhaps of
the coarsest kind, while his father might be contemplating some
piece of buffoonery. Though he said nothing, Alyosha thoroughly
understood his father. The boy, I repeat, was far from being so simple
as everyone thought him. He awaited the day with a heavy heart. No
doubt he was always pondering in his mind how the family discord could
be ended. But his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He trembled for
him, for his glory, and dreaded any affront to him, especially the
refined, courteous irony of Miusov and the supercilious
half-utterances of the highly educated Ivan. He even wanted to venture
on warning the elder, telling him something about them, but, on second
thoughts, said nothing. He only sent word the day before, through a
friend, to his brother Dmitri, that he loved him and expected him to
keep his promise. Dmitri wondered, for he could not remember what he
had promised, but he answered by letter that he would do his utmost
not to let himself be provoked “by vileness,” but that, although he
had a deep respect for the elder and for his brother Ivan, he was
convinced that the meeting was either a trap for him or an unworthy
farce.
“Nevertheless I would rather bite out my tongue than be lacking in
respect to the sainted man whom you reverence so highly,” he wrote
in conclusion. Alyosha was not greatly cheered by the letter.
An Unfortunate Gathering
They Arrive at the Monastery
IT was a warm, bright day the end of August. The interview with
the elder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after
late mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but
arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn
by two valuable horses, drove up with Miusov and a distant relative of
his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This
young man was preparing to enter the university. Miusov with whom he
was staying for the time, was trying to persuade him to go abroad to
the university of Zurich or Jena. The young man was still undecided.
He was thoughtful and absent-minded. He was nice-looking, strongly
built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in his gaze at
times. Like all very absent-minded people he would sometimes stare
at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward,
but sometimes, when he was alone with anyone, he became talkative
and effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his
animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and
even elaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune
and expectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha’s.
In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair
of old pinkish-grey horses, a long way behind Miusov’s carriage,
came Fyodor Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though
he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left
their carriage at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the
gates of the monastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, more of
the party had ever seen the monastery, and Miusov had probably not
even been to church for thirty years. He looked about him with
curiosity, together with assumed ease. But, except the church and
the domestic buildings, though these too were ordinary enough, he
found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last
of the worshippers were coming out of the church bareheaded and
crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher
rank-two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all
staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars,
but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a
ten-copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed-God
knows why!- hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: “Divide it
equally.” None of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he
had no reason to be embarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even
more overcome.
It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and
that they were not received with special honour, though one of them
had recently made a donation of a thousand roubles, while another
was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the
monastery were in a sense dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit
might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands. Yet no
official personage met them.
Miusov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the
church, and was on the point of saying that the dead buried here
must have paid a pretty penny for the right of lying in this “holy
place,” but refrained. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost
into anger.
“Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must
find out, for time is passing,” he observed suddenly, as though
speaking to himself.
All at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with
ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his
hat, he introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner
of Tula. He at once entered into our visitors’ difficulty.
“Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred
paces from the monastery, the other side of the copse.”
“I know it’s the other side of the copse,” observed Fyodor
Pavlovitch, “but we don’t remember the way. It is a long time since
we’ve been here.”
“This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse… the
copse. Come with me, won’t you? I’ll show you. I have to go…. I am
going myself. This way, this way.”
They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a
man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at
them all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes
looked starting out of his head.
“You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own,”
observed Miusov severely. “That personage has granted us an
audience, so to speak, and so, though we thank you for showing us
the way, we cannot ask you to accompany us.”
“I’ve been there. I’ve been already; un chevalier parfait,” and
Maximov snapped his fingers in the air.
“Who is a chevalier?” asked Miusov.
“The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honour and glory of
the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!”
But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale,
wan-looking monk of medium height wearing a monk’s cap, who overtook
them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miusov stopped.
The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced:
“The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him
after your visit to the hermitage. At one o’clock, not later. And
you also,” he added, addressing Maximov.
“That I certainly will, without fail,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch,
hugely delighted at the invitation. “And, believe me, we’ve all
given our word to behave properly here…. And you, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?”
“Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs
here? The only obstacle to me is your company….”
“Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet.”
“It would be a capital thing if he didn’t turn up. Do you
suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will
come to dinner. Thank the Father Superior,” he said to the monk.
“No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder,” answered
the monk.
“If so I’ll go straight to the Father Superior-to the Father
Superior,” babbled Maximov.
“The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please- ” the
monk hesitated.
“Impertinent old man!” Miusov observed aloud, while Maximov ran
back to the monastery.
“He’s like von Sohn,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly.
“Is that all you can think of?… In what way is he like von Sohn?
Have you ever seen von Sohn?”
“I’ve seen his portrait. It’s not the features, but something
indefinable. He’s a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the
physiognomy.”
“Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here,
Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to
behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But,
if you begin to play the fool I don’t intend to be associated with you
here… You see what a man he is”- he turned to the monk- “I’m
afraid to go among decent people with him.” A fine smile, not
without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of
the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a
sense of his own dignity. Miusov frowned more than ever.
“Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through
centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath,”
flashed through Miusov’s mind.
“Here’s the hermitage. We’ve arrived,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch.
“The gates are shut.”
And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted
above and on the sides of the gates.
“When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this
hermitage there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one
another, and eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate.
That’s what is remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear
that the elder receives ladies,” he remarked suddenly to the monk.
“Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico
there waiting. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built
adjoining the portico, but outside the precincts you can see the
windows-and the elder goes out to them
Comments (0)